Sunscreen
by radiany
Summary: [for Talaco] They kiss and they banter, and it's all very meaningless. Only when it isn't. [MaiJou, with tickle fights and degrading oneself and having fun. What more do you want?]


**labels **het; snogging; tickle fights; fluff with a capital 'f'; sexual suggestions; OOC; oneshot; drabble; pg13

**.b.******

W00t. Would you look at that, MaiJou (yes, **MAI**Jou), complete with tease-tickle-kissing and (attempted) avoidance of the common cliché – par example: "tasted like darkness/innocence," "eyes like summer." Blah, blah, blah.

I first started this with the want of making you (the reader) think that they were having gooby, bunny-bopping sex; just for my amusement. Of course, it's kind of hard when it's a tickle fight. **sunfreak **could probably write it just fine (hinthint), considering her own HondaJou tickle fight romance (/plug).

Anyhow, my thanks to **Talaco** (my other goddess) for her badmouthing on romantic clichés. Very suave. Because of that, this is for you (if you want it or not).

**Sunscreen**

Sweat beaded at the top of his forehead as he writhed under her, gasping and breathless and attempting to speak – only to have his cries catch in his throat, clogging up his words. One hand was batting lightly at her breasts, almost playfully, and she only snickered and pinned him down by the shoulder with her free arm; the fingers on her other hand snaked down one side, then the other, pinching his skin teasingly before smoothing over the marks with her palm.

She smelled like lavender, like the perfume she'd sprayed upon her hands last night and the herbal shampoo she'd used that morning only to wash it off with cold water. When she leaned in, close to his ear, he could smell smoky residue lingering off her bangs and blowing rings around her mouth, something that make him choke on his breath and cough dryly into the base of her neck. But her eyes were exceptionally bright when they watched him, and he felt her earrings embossing themselves onto his cheek by the way she pressed herself against him.

Sometimes she would tip her head toward him and press a kiss against his lips; a swift, fleeting mouth to mouth where hers was a glaze of everlasting lipstick and his merely chapped performance. They were taunts, and he thought that this might be the way she disciplined, if not by duel disk.

When she bent down again, he raised his head in rebellion to formulate a plan but ended up with her laughing down at him and having his chin forced up, causing his head to tilt in an awkward angle against the pillow. She pecked down his face, starting from the base of his ear to under his jaw, and felt the shivers reverberating throughout his body despite his raucous protests.

He echoed something like bloody fist fights – street brawls – and hamburger grease, soda cans and hair gel and ocean spray from the harbor. And his hair was rather damp and sticking to his face like warm water in a cup, as if he'd been standing out in the sun too long. The gel had already started melting, turning watery against his roots and streaming toward his face only to dry like glue against his skin. Sometimes she'd accidentally kiss those parts and the taste would be bitter in her mouth, all chemical and cheap money. He'd snort at her expression and she'd roll her eyes and tell him to stop using the stuff, damnit. After that, he'd grin, quite cheekily, and promptly state that she wasn't the boss of him.

It was like they were children again, and she'd wiggle her fingers all over his body, clothes be damned, and watch him squirm under her reach, panting and laughing out loud and even squealing at times. When she smirked into his mouth, she'd tell him that he was like a girl and expect a burst of fury. Sometimes he would surprise her by biting lightly on her bottom lip and whispering all the ways she was like a guy. Maroon-colored lipstick stained upon his teeth.

And then, when they finally stopped, she would roll off of him to the other side of the bed and lie there, catching her breath. He would run a weary hand through his bangs and feel them flop uselessly against his forehead. His fingers came out sticky, oiled.

Later, as the sun began to set in the background, casting purple shadows across the room, she would arise and head to the shower, wondering when her self restraint slackened such a noticeable margin. He would look up from the bed, still in his wrinkled uniform, and leer, asking if she needed company.

She would say 'you wish,' and he would flutter his eyelashes carelessly before asking her if she wanted to do that again sometime.

And every so often, as she opens the bathroom door, she'll pretend to think about it before looking back into his eyes and smiling, saying, 'that would be nice.'

**fin**

**.a.******

finished september 16th, 2004.

I really can't write anything without making it represent something else or making it wholly meaningful and purposeful and etc. in some way or another.

Anyway, this isn't deep, wonderful snogging or porn-without-plot. Not even lets-make-out-without-plot. It's discipline and fun and games and reverting back to when little boys pulled on little girls' pigtails and all that good stuff. You'll see.

**8:53 pm. **(Yes, when I'm supposed to be working on my French cultural aspect essay.)


End file.
